Observations
by Little Obsessions
Summary: It is not just those in it that are affected by their relationship. Angst/romance C and J.
1. Amelia

All characters are property of Disney and Meg Cabot. Nothing belongs to me.

I wanted to look at different perspectives and the idea of Pierre always interested me. A four chapter 'one-shot'; a contradiction in terms.

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Mia wandered through the quiet, moonlit hallways. She had an idea of where she was going but just shy of the doors, she paused for a moment. The guards stood, present as always, their livery sparking in the dim light. She had never saw these doors without a guard; it frightened her that soon, that would be her life.

One of them nodded to her as her hand hesitated over the handle. What she needed right now was comfort and she was looking for it in a rather unusual but willing source. She had come to enjoy her grandmother's hugs, though a rarity, and on this night she was craving them.

The suite was dim and warm. The lights were turned down low. She had expected, at least, for her grandmother to be in bed. She wasn't though. She was sitting by the window, still fully clothed in her dress from dinner. They had marked her uncle Pierre's visit with an intimate celebration and it had been nice to spend her last night with her family, and Lily, before she stepped into the precipice of marriage. Her grandmother was staring out into the summer moonlight, her head titled towards the window.

Her gloves lay crumpled on the table beside her, a half drunk bottle of wine and a glass sat beside them. Mia fleetingly thought it odd; she'd never known her grandmother to drink in private.

"Grandma?"

Clarissa whirled around, hastily wiping her eyes. Mia was, she granted herself, one of the least perceptive people she knew but she was not stupid. She was quick to notice that her grandmother was wiping away tears. From the redness of her eyes, and the glassiness that she was sure she could attribute to both the very pricey wine and the very painful tears, it looked like she had been crying for a while.

Her own neediness fled her then. She had never, in the years that she had known her grandmother, seen her lose it like this. This was not a moment she was supposed to intrude on. That much she knew. Why her grandmother was displaying such abject misery though, she had no clue.

"Mia," she rasped, a weak attempt at a smile on her mouth, "My darling, I didn't think anyone would interrupt."

"Are...you alright?"

She waved an airy hand, then smoothed her hands over the bodice of her dress, "Why of course."

Mia knew that tone. It was one that made it explicit that no further questions were to be asked. She bit her tongue and smiled at her grandmother, attempting to hide her horror.

"Can I help you? You really should be abed," her grandmother said, almost succeeding in her attempt at flippant scolding, "You want to be fresh for tomorrow."

Pointing to the glass on the table, Mia said "So do you."

Clarisse glowered for a split second, then nodded, "You're right Mia."

Her grandmother strode towards her then and pulled her into a ferocious hug. Mia was intensely aware of the dynamic; they were hugging because her grandmother needed it.

She closed the suite door behind her, and found herself even more uneasy than when she had stood in the same hallway less than ten minutes before. She knew where else to seek comfort, so headed there.

She stopped at the threshold of the chapel, looking at the kneeling figure before. She had met her uncle, the oldest of the brothers, the summer she came to Genovia. He had asked for special dispensation from his duties to spend summer with her. She had liked him, loved him, instantly. He was so charmingly peaceful and content that she was hard pressed to believe he wouldn't have made a good king. For the Renaldis though, faith was second only to duty and she had admired instantly his desire to be true to himself. He had done something she was very much failing to do at this point in time; she certainly wasn't being true to herself.

"Uncle Pierre?"

He held up a hand to show he was not finished and she scolded herself. He took a few moments more, blessed himself, then turned to face her.

"I am sorry I interrupted you."

"Not at all, Amelia," he motioned to the pew beside him, "I didn't realise you came here."

"I don't," she answered truthfully, "Not that often. I adopted the faith, because it's a family thing, but I don't..."

They sat in silence for a moment then he said, "I needed to pray tonight."

She was about to ask what for but then she realised how utterly personal that question was. She needed to tell someone who would listen; who would help her fix this.

"I just saw grandma crying," she blurted quickly.

He did not seem at all surprised by this and she wanted to shake him and say, fix this. You need to fix this because this never happens. Then it occurred to her that he had, given he was her son, probably saw her cry before.

He nodded.

"Joseph handed in his resignation letter today."

She felt like a stone had been dropped in her stomach, cold and heavy.

"He didn't tell me."

"No," her uncle answered, "No, he only told me today. I suspect he doesn't want you to be any more stressed than you should be."

She groaned, "What will I do without Joseph?"

"It's not you I am concerned for."

It was not said with cruelty or malice but it immediately humiliated her. Her sudden embarrassment was quickly followed by understanding.

"Oh," she simply said.

"Tomorrow isn't your travesty Mia," he continued, "It's theirs."

She looked at her uncle, dumbfounded. Surely he didn't believe the rumours. Those nasty, gossipy rumours about the queen and her head of security were abound in Genovia. They were, Mia thought to herself, very good friends but it was no more than that.

"How could he leave? He's always been here!"

"Tired of waiting on her, I imagine."

Mia took this literally, "But that's his job. He waits on her because it's his job."

Pierre laughed a little and stared at her. Then she understood what he meant and was genuinely shocked.

"You don't believe all that!"

"I know it," he answered, "Let's go and have some hot milk, it always makes me feel sleepy."

They sat across for each other, hands wrapped around mugs. The private kitchen was silent, but just to the left of them and through a door, the actual palace kitchen was awash with life. The caterers had already begun preparing the ten course dinner.

She was wondering how to broach the subject, and wished she'd paid more attention in her diplomacy lessons.

"I can't believe he's going," was all she could manage.

"He's been here for 35 years," her uncle answered, "And all of that time he's loved her."

Mia was incredulous.

"That's rubbish."

But as she was saying it, she really was re-evaluating what she thought on the whole matter.

"Tomorrow's Joseph's last day," Pierre continued, "Then he's leaving."

"Where will he go?"

It suddenly occurred to Mia that she knew very little of Joe. She knew he was fun, and kind, and stern when he had to be. But she knew very little about him. She knew one thing though, which was why she felt like she had been duped; he cared a great deal about her grandmother.

"He has a home in Spain," Pierre shrugged, "When I was in the middle of my crisis of conscience, he let me have that house for months. I stayed there, prayed, thought, wrote..."

"I never knew that," Mia answered, "I never thought about how long he's been in everyone's life...in grandma's life."

They looked at each other squarely then, and he took up her silent question.

"They are in love."

Mia just shook her head mutely, but she was beginning to agree. She cast her mind back, sieved her memory for any suspicion she may have had. Yes, she admitted to herself, they had existed from time to time.

"They do an excellent job of hiding it," she responded rather feebly.

"Mama does," her uncle answered wryly, "Joseph; not so much. He was very good to us as boys, you know. My papa was good, don't think otherwise, but he was always very busy. Joseph was my mama's body guard, so he was with us always. He taught me to play soccer."

Mia had the distinct impression that he was speaking more to himself than to her. Nonetheless she found such an insight fascinating. She had never thought of Joe as young, or her grandmother really as a mother. She had never thought of them as more that friends until now. Close friends, yes. Lovers, no. The thought did not make her ill, or embarrass her; it just made her feel sad. It was an overwhelming sadness that she felt.

Suddenly, it seemed like she'd missed something that had been staring her in the face.

"He can't go," she said quietly, "He can't leave."

"He's a determined man...with a broken heart."

"You don't know that," Mia protested.

"Why else would he go?"

Her uncle looked at her kindly and Mia stared back.

"What do you think has happened?"

Pierre put his head down, "You know you grandmother, as well as I do. What do you think?"

"Duty?" Mia groaned.

Pierre merely laughed, "No, fear."

Mia looked puzzled, and then thought of those touches and looks she had witnessed between them. At nights, when it was quiet, she knew Joseph went to her grandmother's chambers. She would join them sometimes and they would talk about inconsequential things. She had, on millions of occasions, saw him place a hand on the lower of her back, or kiss her hand. None of it had any significance until now. But now she thought of these images differently, and painted with different water colours and hung in a new light, they carried with them a whole new meaning. There was restraint under the surface; subjugation from him, and fear radiating from her, with every touch. A relationship being conducted, entirely in secret, in the middle of filled rooms and state conferences. Fear was right.

"Fear?"

"The whole world," Pierre stated, "Has watched her, and by extension of that, him, for her whole life. One wrong move and she brings everything to the ground. That kind of pressure is hard to withstand." Pierre tapped his fingers on the table, "I imagine that he asked her to make it public."

"She wouldn't?"

"I don't know," he responded, "I'm only surmising. I've never been in love Mia but the frustration he must feel...she can be so," he squeezed his lips together, as if looking for the words, "Cold."

Something occurred to her suddenly and it made her feel a little uncomfortable. On this night of revelations, it appeared to be the overwhelming feeling she was experiencing.

"Uncle Pierrre, you say this like it's been going on for years."

"It has."

He suddenly waved a hand, "Not before my papa died, of course."

Mia was relieved to have heard that. On review of such information, she might not have known how to accept the notion of her grandmother involved in an extra-marital affair. She had never known her grandfather and her only understanding of the king was that of her grandmother's; that he was a good and kind man, and a good husband too.

"But…" he lingered on the word, "It's always been there. Even as a child I sensed their friendship was, or should I say could have been, something much more. There's an attraction there that is, I suppose, inescapable."

"Not for Joseph," Mia answered dryly.

"Indeed," her uncle nodded, and looked ponderously into his cup.

"I didn't see it," she answered quietly, shaking her head.

"They do an excellent job of hiding it," Pierre whispered, "if you don't know where to look. Tomorrow Mia, you're making a choice that you've made entirely of your own volition. You've chosen your life on the throne over a grand romance; that's ok for you because you've weighed it up and decided in the throne's favour. My mother, she's never had the option for either. She didn't have it then and the evil of fear keeps her from having it now. She's walking away from a good, kind man and he's finally moving in the other direction. As I said, it's their travesty tomorrow not yours. "

Mia just looked at him; it didn't feel that way.


	2. Pierre

Thank you for the very supportive reviews for the last chapter! I appreciate them, and love them, very much.

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Pierre couldn't sleep after his conversation with Mia. His last comment, he thought in retrospect, was not as supportive as it should have been but he could not help it. The truth always found a way out. Anger, at something unknown and just outside his field of understanding, had been building in his chest since Joseph had told him this morning. The older man had said it casually, as if it were throwaway, as they rode back from the airport. Yet Pierre had taken it like a blow; hard and debilitating all at once. You're leaving? He'd repeated incredulously. Joseph merely nodded and, keeping his trained eyes on the road, replied that it was time.

He thudded on the oak panelled door before him. Many times, before he had left the palace, he had stood here and thumped the self-same door with the need and urgency he did now. The need to talk. The need to discuss truths. There was a scuffle inside and with a click of the lock, it fell slowly open.

"Pierre."

The whiff of malt was inescapable. Pierre sucked in a breath and without even asking, brushed past him into the room. Now that he found himself here, he might as well say exactly what he was thinking.

He looked around. It was pristinely tidy, not a thing out of place. The only sign of a resident was the decanter, filled with only the dregs of an expensive Scottish import, and the music playing slowly in the background.

"I see you've started packing."

"Are you being sarcastic?" Joseph sat back down on the couch, "_Her Majesty_ said I can have all the time I need to pack. She was very considerate."

Pierre did not miss the intonation, however slurred, that accompanied those words. Venom, anger, rage.

"Delaying it then, just one more day…holding out a little while? If you're going to do it, Joseph, do it properly. I expect that of you, at least."

Pierre was goading him and he didn't know why. Childish perhaps, but he imagined it was because he hoped Joseph would say; alright I'll stay for one more day. Then there was hope. Hope for him, hope for her, hope for Pierre himself. There had been one prayer he had been praying for years; that she would give in. That his mother would finally surrender that last, desperate control.

"Leave it alone," Joseph growled, his eyes not leaving the wall he was staring at.

"Why do you think she said that to you? Because she wants to drag it out too!"

Joseph refused to look up again. Lifting the glass, he took a swig, grimaced and placed it back down on the table. Pierre searched form something that would at least get him talking, something to rile him into admitting that he was making the wrong choice.

"You're drunk. It's my niece's wedding in the morning and you have a job-"

Suddenly Joseph was on his feet, his fists balled in fury, held before his chest. Pierre jumped back in fright. Joseph, though never aggressive, was formidable.

"Don't remind me that I have a job to do!" He roared, "Don't remind me that the only thing I've ever done is this job. I don't need you to remind me of that right now!"

Pierre stalled for a moment then felt incredibly guilty. The man before him was panting, his hand rubbing frantically against his jeans. Sweat coated his brow. He was so much more than an employee; it had been a discourteous and low thing to say.

"This job is all I've ever done…"

Pierre nodded.

"Give her time," he said weakly.

"I'm afraid," Jospeh whispered, tears threatening to spill over his eyes, "I've given her all my time. I'm afraid I've got nothing left."

Pierre sat down on the couch and watched as his oldest confidante and role-model paced aimlessly. He turned suddenly and sitting directly across from him, looked him in the eye.

"I've given her everything I have to give her Pierre," he said calmly, his face unreadable,"And I need out before I give her anything more."

Pierre merely nodded because he knew all of it was true.

"Where will you go?"

"Home," Joseph answered.

"This is your home," Pierre said, and he heard desperation in his own voice. It was shocking to hear. It was hard to say. This was his home, so much more than it had ever even been Pierre's.

"I can't save her from herself. Any more than you can. Our trajectories are so different," Joseph said, "I should have seen it years ago."

"You did," Pierre murmured, "But it didn't stop you."

Joseph laughed, a sore, dead laugh.

"It has now."

"I can see that," Pierre answered, "Please keep in touch with us and if not with us," he swallowed, "Please stay in touch with me Joe."

"I will kid," he promised, though he didn't look him in the eye.

"I'll see you in the morning."

"Last day on the job," Joseph said dryly. He held up his glass, "Here's to my retirement."

In his role, in the day to day ministry of looking after the people who followed the faith, he had witnessed many broken people. He had witnessed broken bodies and broken hearts.

This was one of the very few occasions where such breaking had brought him to tears. He stood on the other side of the door and cried.


	3. Shades

Thank you for your reviews on the previous chapter. I am enjoying writing this a lot.

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The control room was quiet. It was like this every morning; the proverbial calm before the storm. Shades sat alone, running over the plans one final time. The others in the sizeable security team had a later start, since the wedding would go on well into the night, but Shades was already preparing for the day. He felt uneasy. Not because there was an imminent threat but because Joe's eye was off the ball. It was really very simple. The usually efficient Head of Security had been nigh on useless in the run up to the wedding and Shades had taken up the duties in the fraught knowledge that it just had to be done.

He re-read the detail in bold which, really, was all he needed to know; he was accompanying Princess Mia to the wedding, and as always, Joe would accompany the queen.

The door behind him opened and Joseph, already dressed in morning tails, stepped in. he looked tired as he rubbed a hand over his eyes. Shades smirked a little; he would put his boss's displeasure down to the fact that he had to wear a shirt that was a colour other than black.

"Morning boss."

"Good morning."

Joseph sat at his desk for a moment and Shades watched him as he watched the monitors. His eyes were glassy, his mouth set in a hard frown. He looked up, catching Shades watching him.

"Are they up yet?"

"Yes," shades flipped over a channel into the Queen's private sitting room to prove the point. She was sitting on her couch, tea in hand. Her bathrobe indicated she had showered a few moments before.

"Switch that off," Joseph ordered gruffly.

Shades didn't protest. He knew he didn't like people watching the queen anyway, so he supposed it was just an extension of that.

"There's a change of plan today."

Shades snapped his head round. Joseph never changed plans. He was rigidly inflexible on planning, incredibly flexible in tough situations. It was a trait Shades really admired in him.

"But sir-"

"You'll ride with the queen," Joseph cut over him, "I'll ride with the princess. They'll be our details all day."

Shades genuinely had to muster all his energy to save himself from looking shocked. He was about to take over the post of Head of Security and had always modelled his decisions on what Joseph would do. Joseph, if he had been thinking straight, would never have done this.

"Sir I have to disagree," he muttered rather bravely.

"Shades," the boss said calmly, but it was not without an undertone of threat, "I'm not even going to lie to you. I'm not going to give you a logical reason or a decent excuse. I just can't today. You're going to be a good friend, rather than a good adjutant on this occasion, and go with it."

Shades nodded as Joseph continued, "It's my last job. Let me at least be effective at it."

Shades nodded silently and turned back to the monitor. He didn't want to argue. He knew better than that. Something told him he couldn't argue – the look that was lingering at the back of his friend's eyes told him no protest was needed. Something had gone massively wrong.

He watched the queen kiss her son at the doors, pull her jacket together in her customary fashion, and descend the stairs. He had rarely detailed the queen before; in all his time at the palace, it hadn't even been an option. He had worked with the boss on trips and bigger concerns which involved Her Majesty but in Genovia the queen was Joe's territory. The only time he ever worked with her was on the rare occasion Joseph actually took his holidays or allowed his age to get in the way and ended laid up in bed with a cold. He felt odd watching as she descended, realising he rarely engaged with her.

As she reached the car and he held open the door, she stalled. Her footing faltered. Her surety faltered.

"Scott?"

"Ma'am?"

"Where is Joseph?"

She sounded the same, but at the same time, she didn't. He swallowed the lump from his throat. He was convinced it had made a noise. She looked at him for a moment, her face blank, then it seemed to crumple into agony. He realised that Joseph's dire mood could not simply be attributed to his having to wear morning tails. He knew, immediately, that something had happened between them.

Shades had no clear description for what went on between them – whatever it was it was convoluted to say the least – but he knew there was something and really, so did the rest of the palace if not the country. He was the guy who wiped the cameras after all. He would not though, have called it a relationship; not in the traditional sense anyway. Stolen moments in offices and ballrooms did not constitute a relationship but he wasn't truly privy to anything else – Joseph made entirely sure of that. Even the odd joke, cracked at the expense of the queen by one of the younger boys, invited the biggest dressing down that Joseph ever delivered to one of his team just a few days before. Any mention of her, in anything other than an official capacity, was entirely frowned upon in the security team. The boys conjectured about it – and Shades did too privately – but in short, no one ever broached the subject with Joseph.

"He'll be with the princess today," he fished about for something, anything, to wipe that disastrous look from her face, to attempt to offer her some sort of comfort. He had always thought, before he had come here, that he would view these people as insufferable snobs. It couldn't have been farther from the truth. The princess was adorable and warm and the queen, if somewhat distant, was a good boss and a diplomat of incredible wit and skill. He liked these women. He cared about Joseph, his boss and friend, more though. If this was how the queen had reacted to the fact he wasn't even there, something monumental must have occurred. Shades' stomach tightened.

"You know...the threat is higher since it's her wedding."

Even to him it sounded utterly feeble. She smiled anyway, because she was always putting everyone at ease and was happy to shoulder any uneasy burden. He felt genuinely sorry for her because she had no choice other than to behave in that way. He would have hated that, he thought momentarily to himself.

She waved an airy hand but her voice grew low, pained, "Of course, Scott."

He watched her through the rear view mirror. For the first time in all the time he'd worked for her, he saw what a half-hearted effort from the queen looked like. From the moment they left the palace gates, people lined the streets waving flags and cheering. She waved, as she always did, but when the people thinned out and the streets emptied in little patches, he watched her lower her hand to wipe tears from her eyes. She was even diplomatic at hiding grief.

He had never been diplomatic when he was younger but Joe had taught him what diplomacy and manners were we he had first come to the palace. He had been a school drop out and on his last legs in the military for fighting and insubordination when Colonel Romero had given him a shot, much against the opinions of his chief officer. Joseph had taught him how to be frightening without opening his mouth or using his fists – he considered that invaluable but he had, more importantly, taught him how to be a gentleman.

Eventually he couldn't bare it any more, "I have a handkerchief here Your Majesty."

He moved so his hand offered it through the partition of the limo. She took it.

"Did Joseph teach you that?"

Yes, he felt like saying, among millions of other things. But he didn't say anything, he just nodded because, at the end of the day, that's what Joseph would have done.


	4. Charlotte

Thank you for reading this story. I'm delighted to have finished it.

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Charlotte watched them from afar, marvelling at how seamlessly Joseph had slipped into this role. Observing for years had probably gifted him the kind of knowledge he needed to fit in and he nodded politely and spoke charmingly to their, albeit unintentional, wedding guests. He appeared at ease, yet the tense set of his jaw betrayed him. She knew they had a difficult time in front of them – you did not go from servant to served easily and Joseph would find that transition difficult, she imagined. She had, always aware of the protocol involved in these things, propelled him to his rooms to change into his military dress before the official photographs and he had been less than pleased to be separated from his new wife and forced to dress according to his station. However he was unusually willing to back down and Charlotte was hoping to cash in on this. She put it down to the fact that he had just married the one woman he had loved forever.

She had then stayed with the queen, who merely kept saying "Oh Charlotte! Can you believe it?"

Her tact had told her not to answer, merely to smile a very pleased, genuine smile as the queen retouched her make-up, changed into a sweeping ball gown that had been intended for the evening reception anyway, and then rejoined her husband. Yes, she had really wanted to say, I think the only person who can't believe it is you...and maybe Joseph.

The night had worn on in the way parties did at the palace; a mix of genuine friendships and forced alliances. The princess, free from the immediate bonds of matrimony, was having an excellent time with her friends. Having failed to relinquish his wife all evening, Charlotte was surprised when the newly retired Head of Security moved towards her and placing his hat on a nearby table, bowed. She had just finished supervising the clean up of the dining room and was finally taking a moment to herself. Her feet were sore but she was satisfied with how well it had gone. She was pleased that she had handled the monumental change in plan so quickly – she had, between the church and the palace, managed to have all the stationary changed so the initials read C&J and conveyed the necessary instructions so the footmen could alter the seating arrangements. She had organised a change to the music and speeches. She had done her job and she had done it very, very well.

"My wife," he smiled significantly, and it stretched from ear to ear, "Says you have worked tirelessly all day and need a break. She sent me over here to dance with you...who am I to refuse such a strong will?"

They both looked towards the queen who was conversing with the representative from France, but they looked now from very different perspectives than they had before. The Queen smiled at them both for a moment and returned to her conversation, her eyes lingering on Joseph monetarily. It was odd for Charlotte because even though she had saw that look pass between them before, it wasn't as clandestine as it had been before their wedding that very morning. There was a legitimacy about it that meant Charlotte didn't need to shield her view from it or pretend she didn't see. It came as a blessed relief actually, because tiptoeing around them both had become exhausting. Charlotte had never witnessed the Queen look so relaxed, and while she knew there would be questions to answer and most likely accusations to fend off, she couldn't help but feel relaxed too.

"What do I call you now Joe?"

He led her to the dance floor, took her in his arms and he laughed with his half growl, "Joe?"

She smiled at her friend and laughed, "Just Joe?"

"Just Joe. Though I am sure," he pulled a face, "Clarisse has more than 'just Joe' plans. I wonder if I'll ever get used to calling her Clarisse ?"

"You're saying that for my benefit," Charlotte accused lightly, "After all, you've been calling her her name for years."

He shrugged cheekily and laughed, "Ok, I grant you that."

"I'm so happy for you, for both of you," Charlotte said fervently, "I really am."

"I know you are," he nodded as he spun her out effortlessly and pulled her back in again, "You've been a great friend Charlotte...to Clarisse yes, but to me especially. I know what you've done for us. You've always kept the wolves at bay."

Charlotte knew exactly what he meant; he meant all the hidden moments she'd allowed them to share, the discreet closing of doors or backing out of rooms that she was so prone to – those things that made her job even harder. The times that some untrustworthy employee decided to hint to Elsie Kentworthy, or a journalist, and she had to fend them off. She smiled graciously, as taught by her queen. Charlotte had understood the passion that passed between them, long before they did. She had watched her friend, the Head of Security,shattered and then built up over the course of the last few hours. When the Bishop had said 'finally!' she had thought it too. Finally she could relax.

"Can you clear her schedule for the next few days?" He asked politely, though Charlotte could not help but smile. He shook his head warningly and she blushed.

"I already have."

"Of course you have," he smiled, "Of course you have."

Charlotte stayed up a little later just to ensure that the Queen's schedule was clear – it took some juggling, but it meant that she would at least have a day or so with her husband. Her inbox was already completely full of emails from contacts in the journalistic world – she knew that these relationships had to work both ways but she just forwarded them all to the Chief Press Officer with a real sense of 'couldn't care less'. She leaned back in her chair, content. Things were right, for the first time in a long time.


End file.
